


The Portrait

by RachaelGold



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 09:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14422347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RachaelGold/pseuds/RachaelGold
Summary: Very shortwith second companion piece posted as Chapter 2Inspired by trip to a London Art Gallery.





	1. The Portrait

The man with dark ebony eyes sat on the bench staring at the portrait. He had sat there motionless for an hour or more, studying the painting in minute detail, an expression of regretful longing written on his face.

The portrait was of a woman, several times life-size. It was truly magnificent, and, he had to admit, an excellent likeness of her. He admired the way the artist had captured the sheen on her red hair. The blue eyes seemed to bore into those of the viewer, just as those of their real owner. They danced with lively curiosity, yet held a hint of her famous steely determination. An enigmatic smile played mischievously on her lips. He remembered that smile with such fondness. The porcelain skin, the fine nose, the slender neck, the aristocratic chin… all had been accurately portrayed. 

The woman had been lovingly painted by her own sister, and so it was not surprising that it showed her relaxed and happy. It was the face of a woman who had accomplished what she had set out to achieve. The face of a woman who had been dealt many of life’s blows, but had come out triumphant. She was out of uniform. Instead she was wearing a dark green dress, the folds of which reflected the light delightfully. The artwork was exquisite, but the result had a simplicity that belied this. 

He studied the hands carefully. He’d always admired those hands. They were always ready and willing to offer comfort or encouragement. The fingers were long and dainty, just as the real ones were, but perhaps they lacked a sense of their animation. 

No, all in all, it was an impressive work. He could not take his eyes off it. It was the portrait of a woman he loved very deeply. He’d worshipped the ground she’d walked on for seven years. He’d long ago promised to be by her side always. But he’d let her down.

This was the woman he’d let slip through his fingers. At just the crucial moment, he’d foolishly been entangled in an ill-judged relationship. And though he’d long ago seen the error of this, he hadn’t been able to undo the damage. She hadn’t spoken to him for eight months. Hadn’t responded to his messages or answered his calls. He couldn’t blame her. He knew now how much he’d hurt her. She hadn’t even invited him to yesterday’s unveiling ceremony.

His heart was aching, as he thought of what he had lost. If he had a chance to see her again, he wouldn’t blow it. He’d tell her how he felt, make her see how much she meant to him. He wouldn’t let her slip away again. If he had the chance.

But he’d didn’t think he’d get that chance. For a while he’d held out hope that she’d agree to see him, or that they’d bump into each other accidentally somewhere. But it hadn’t happened. So he’d come here just to see her one more time. To say goodbye.

His body shuddered, as he buried his head in his hands. The world outside seemed to vanish as he lost himself in his pain. But then a small slender hand alighted on his shoulder, and a familiar husky voice asked, "Have you missed me that much?"


	2. The Painting

The dark-haired man and the red-headed woman sat on a bench in companionable silence, staring at the painting. The man held the woman’s hand lovingly, and their faces shone with rapt appreciation. 

The painting was of a man and a woman, several times life-size. It was truly a magnificent piece. The woman in the picture had shining blue eyes and red hair, exactly the same shade as that of the female viewer. Her beautiful hands were folded in her lap, and her face glowed with happiness and contentment. She exuded a sense of true greatness and serenity.

The man in the painting stood to the left and slightly behind the woman. His hair was dark with traces of grey at the temple. On the left side of his face there was a tribal symbol, which marked him out as the warrior he had once been and lent him an air of nobility. He had a firm square jaw, which hinted at a gritty determination, and a dimpled smile which lit his face. 

The artist was clearly very skilful, for his dark ebony eyes drew you into the depths of his being. They spoke of a man who had battled through countless difficulties in life and known the meaning of pain. Yet, this was a man who had found true peace within himself. And this was a man who knew what it was like to love a woman utterly and completely. Everything in the universe he cherished was right there next to him. It was obvious from the expression on his face as his gaze fell on the woman, and from the way his left hand was draped tenderly across her left shoulder, a sparkle of light bouncing off his wedding ring. 

The artwork was incredible. It was a true vibrant representation of the famous loving couple, whose warmth and happiness radiated from the painting. It accurately depicted two people whose love for each other provided the foundation on which they had fought their way through a long and dangerous adventure. The rock on which they would build their future lives, and become the confident and influential leaders they promised to be. 

The painting had replaced an earlier one by the same artist of the woman alone, which had hung in the exact same spot for a year, before being relocated to the wall on the opposite side of the room. 

The viewers sighed, absorbing a sense of joy and tenderness from the painting. The man put his arm affectionately around the woman’s shoulder in an almost exact mirror image of the picture, as she leaned into him. The man spoke into the woman’s ear in a soft deep voice. "You’re so incredibly like your grandmother, you know."


End file.
